


three square meals

by amuk



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: Even separated as they were, they all had to eat. Had to rest. Had to laugh.





	three square meals

**Author's Note:**

> written for the LoTR twilight and shadow zine. I got assigned fluff and tried to include everyone. XD

 

 **Breakfast** :

“You were serious about the second breakfast?” Boromir stared at Merry and Pippin as they sat on a rock, divvying up sausages and fruit. They had already made four piles of bread, unpacking whilst everyone else was gathering their belongings. It was a mess and not for the first time he wondered if there was any wisdom in bringing such small, impulsive creatures with them.

 

Despite their supposed ages, they looked and acted like children at times. Such as now, with Merry grinning cheerfully and holding out an apple. “Should we set some aside for you too?”

 

“No.” Boromir frowned, rubbing his forehead. They had been traveling together for the span of a few days and he had a feeling his headache would be a daily thing. “How many breakfasts do you normally eat?”

 

“Four.” Pippin said confidently.

 

“Five,” Merry replied just as firmly at the same time and the pair stared at each other.

 

After a moment, they chorused together, “Three to five.”

 

“That’s…that’s a lot of breakfast.” Boromir glanced at their bellies. They didn’t look portly, like some of the nobles in Gondor did when they’d spent their days feasting and nothing else. Though, he couldn’t say the hobbits were particularly fit either. Merry and Pippin often complained about the hike, asking for breaks on an hourly basis, even if they were soundly rejected every single time.

 

Though they did keep walking despite their whining, so maybe they were sturdy at the very least.

 

Merry shrugged, returning to spreading jam on a piece of toast. “Not really. It’s normal. What, do you only eat two?”

 

“One.” Boromir, crouched, glaring at the pair. He was starting to feel like a baby sitter. “And you need to pack, we’re leaving.”

 

“Oh, come on!” Pippin crossed his arms and puffed his cheeks and Boromir could not shake the image of a child out of his head. “We’re setting things so we don’t have to stop for breakfast. We can eat while we walk.”

 

“Yeah, do you want to hear our stomachs rumble?” Merry swished a butter knife in the air dramatically. “We’re hiding in a bush, away from the dark lord, and then all of a sudden there’s a loud _awrrrrgghhhh_ because someone wouldn’t let us eat?”

 

“We won’t hide,” Boromir stated, his hand on his hilt. Despite all the uncertainties of their travel routes and methods, of that he was positive. “We’ll cut past them.”

 

“Sure, you say that now.” Merry snorted. Both hobbits were quickly bundling up their food piles and when had they finished preparing? They were surprisingly sneaky little things; it was no wonder Boromir had never seen one before this day.

 

“I’ll say it then too.” Boromir got up, looking toward the sun. Toward home. It would miles yet before they were near Gondor, before he could even dream of Gondor, but they would get there. No matter what the elves or Aragorn had said, he was sure he could convince the group to stop by when they were closer.

 

“There. Set.” Pippin leaped off the rock, his bag packed. “See, no trouble at all.”

 

“Right.” Boromir laughed as the two hobbits puffed their chests with pride. All this over breakfast. “When I take you to Gondor, you’ll see why one breakfast is more than enough there.”

 

Merry furrowed his brow, a challenging smirk on his face. “Do you really think you can satisfy us?”

 

“You’ll be rolling home.” He ruffled their hair, ignoring their protests. “It’ll be a feast unlike any you’ve ever seen.”

 

-x-

 **Lunch** :

“What is your home like?” Eowyn asked, rolling her shoulders back as she straightened her posture. Long rides were nothing new to her; the horse was almost an extension of her body at times, and she could move him through his paces in her sleep. The problem was the tedious pace, the days upon end where they trotted slowly across the kingdom. It was a long trek to Helm’s Deep and they couldn’t go any faster out of fear of outpacing their walking subjects.

 

It did not make it any less tempting to squeeze her thighs and urge her mount into a gallop. The wide fields ahead of them almost seemed to call for her.

 

Gimli twisted on his seat uncomfortably, his expression dour. His arms crossed as he failed to find any position he liked, and it spoke of his strength that he didn’t fall of the horse like that. “We do not use horses.”

 

He’d been like that for the past hour but she was pretty sure it was the elf sitting in front of him that was the real reason for his discomfort.

 

“That’s because you can’t reach high enough to sit on one.” Legolas smirked, glancing over his shoulder at his companion. “Don’t worry, the ground won’t be too far when you fall.”

 

“When?” Miffed, Gimli’s hand curled around his axe for what had to be the tenth time this morning.

 

Eowyn failed to suppress her chuckle in time and Gimli turned his glare to her. With a placating smile, she patted her horse’s neck. “They aren’t too bad, when you get used to them.”

 

“If you say so, lass.” Gimli still frowned, looking entirely put out.

 

“Why don’t we give him a dog; the ponies the hobbits have might be too big for him,” Legolas suggested, and she wasn’t sure at this point if he actually meant half his insults or he said them only to get a rise out of his comrade.

 

Either way, it always ended the same way, with the pair glaring at each other. Bloodshed seemed almost unavoidable now and she glanced at Aragon hopefully. When he merely shrugged, unfazed by the threatening atmosphere, she bit back a sigh. It fell to her then. Tapping her chin, she tried to find a neutral topic. It was close to lunch and her stomach grumbled softly. “What is food like in Erebor? You said something about a feast.”

 

“Aye!” Finally, Gimli grinned, wide and full of teeth. He puffed his chest proudly. “Come under the mountain, and you’ll see a dwarven feast. Piles of meat, all cooked to perfection. Goblets of overflowing wine. Nothing is lacking.”

 

“Burnt food,” Legolas listed off, counting his fingers. Somehow, even that simple movement looked more graceful than anything Eowyn had done in her life. “Sour wine. Lack of vegetables. No wonder you’re always in a foul mood.”

 

“And you’re a bloody rabbit,” Gimli shot back, leaning back to look up at the elf. Some miracle kept him on his seat; any further and he would fall. “All leaves and grapes and your meat’s undercooked.”

 

“Or maybe you just don’t know what proper cooking is.” Legolas raised a brow, looking over his shoulder. “You know it isn’t supposed to be black. Even charcoal has move flavour.”

 

“You…” Gimli growled, setting off a tirade of proper fire techniques and maybe food wasn’t as safe a topic as Eowyn had hoped. To be honest, maybe nothing was—she had a feeling that even a discussion about the sky would somehow end up in an argument.

 

At least it was entertaining.

 

“You got them started,” Aragon sighed as he urged his horse next to her, clearly used to the argument. He clicked his tongue as the pair squabbled. “It’ll be hours before they shut up. Even then, only for a few minutes.”

 

The amused smile on his face said otherwise. There was a wild rush at seeing that, like racing her horse across the plain, like winning her first sword fight. She looked away. “And what about you, my lord? How do your people eat?”

 

“…nothing to talk about,” Aragon admitted slowly. A hand rubbed his neck slowly as he considered the question. “We live in the wilds, so it’s just wild game and herbs. We’re not really known for our cooking.”

 

 _And what are you known for_? she wanted to ask. A king who was not king, a man who lived freer than she ever had. Even with her uncle safe, with her brother back, she felt just as trapped as she did back in that cold castle with Wormtongue leering at her. But the words were caught in her throat and she tightened her grip on the reins. “Neither are mine, we spend too much time in the saddle. Oh, but my mother, her stew was delicious.”

 

“Stew?” Gimli tuned back into the conversation, interested once more. He leaned toward her and there had to be something supernatural that was keeping him on his seat. “Would that be a meat stew, lass?”

 

“Of course.” She brushed a stray hair behind her ear nervously, before blurting out. “I’ll make you some for lunch.”

 

Gimli looked delighted and though she wouldn’t look, she hoped Aragon was maybe half as interested.

 

-x-

 **Dinner** :

“Keep your hands from the pot!” Sam ordered, slapping Faramir’s hands before they could touch the ladle. The sound echoed in the night air, drowning out the crackle of the fire. “It’s not ready yet.”

 

Faramir blinked. It was rare that anyone treated him with such familiarity. Even out here, in the marsh lands, he was still considered a lord, a de facto prince, since few believed the king would return. “I was merely going to stir it.”

 

“Oh.” Sam coloured, embarrassed. He twisted his hands nervously. “No offense meant, sire. Just that…well, my friends, they’d often steal bites while I cooked and I…old habits.” He offered a timid smile.

 

It was interesting to observe Sam. One moment fierce and protective, the next self-depreciating. Faramir could see a little of himself in the hobbit. “It’s fine.” He sat next to Frodo, who watched the affair with a tired smile. “Are you one of those friends?”

 

The hobbit looked exhausted, almost as dead as the land they threaded, but at this a small flush of colour returned to his skin. With a mischievous grin, he confessed conspiratorially, “When he wasn’t looking.”

 

“What?” Sam dropped the ladle, staring at him in surprise. A hand reached up, clutching his chest. “I could understand Merry and Pippin. But you too?”

 

Looking entirely unapologetic, Frodo shrugged. “Well, I was hungry.”

 

“Frodo Baggins!” Sam frowned, disappointed. Sternly, he pulled the ladle closer to him as though some mysterious had would steal it away. “Well, not this time.”

 

“Of course not,” Frodo blinked innocently, a beguiling smile on his face. He clasped his hands in front of him, looking troubled by the very thought. “Your stew is safe.”

 

Not buying it, Sam shook his head with a distrusting scowl. Lifting the ladle, he took a small sip and rolled the liquid around his mouth. He reached into his pouch, pulled out a pinch of some mysterious powder, and tossed it in. “Ok, this should do.” He grabbed a bowl and poured a spoonful of a steaming hot broth inside. “For you, sire.”

 

Faramir took the bowl and inhaled. While it largely smelled like any other rabbit stew, a few unfamiliar herbs flooded his senses. Whatever they were, it was a pleasant scent. “Smells good.”

 

“Thank you. Made it just like my gaffer did, a family recipe.” Sam smiled proudly, his hands on his hips. His smile dropped as he swivelled his head over to Frodo and squinted at him for a long moment. Grabbing a second bowl, he mused, “I think I’ll give this to Gollum first.”

 

Aghast, Frodo stood up in horror. Clearly, he had not considered the consequences of his admission. “No!”

 

“Yes!” Considering how much Sam hated the creature, this was clearly a sore point. With a sniff, he filled the bowl to the brim. “And then maybe for Faramir’s men and if anything is left over, then you.”

 

Faramir cracked a smile. “I doubt there is enough in there for all of my men.”

 

Sam pursed his lips disapprovingly. He stirred the pot three times, considering it, before conceding. “Fine. But Gollum first and then you. And if you steal a spoonful, that will be your last spoonful.”

 

Looking contrite, Frodo nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I won’t touch anything.”

 

“I’ll watch him,” Faramir offered, chuckling as Sam trotted away in a huff. Meals with his brother used to be like this, warm and full of conversation.

 

Boromir. His eyes lowered, staring at the bowl in his hands. His brother, dead. His brother, gone. It was a strange thought, to know that his brother would never return to him, would never again stride through the halls with a laugh and a hearty wave.

 

“Faramir?” Frodo cocked his head, looking up at him in concern. He crouched next to Faramir, his hands on his knees. “Is something the matter?”

 

Shaking his head out of his thoughts, he stirred his bowl. “It’s nothing.” He took a small sip and his lips parted in surprise at the warm broth. It seemed Sam wasn’t all talk. “It’s delicious.”

 

“He’s a good cook.” Frodo sat, hugging his knees. Staring at the fire, he commented softly, “I don’t think I would have made it this far without him.”

 

Ah. The hobbits really did remind Faramir of himself. He had seen that exact look before in the mirror, while thinking of Boromir. “He’s a good companion.”

 

“More than he realizes.” Frodo added with a quiet smile. His fingers played with the folds of his pants. “He’s my best friend.”

 

His brother was his best friend too. No, Boromir _had_ _been_ his best friend. A dull ache came at the correction, at the realization that he had a lifetime of it. Faramir took another sip, the liquid carving a hot path down his throat. “Did my brother ever tell you about Gondor?”

 

“Yes, he wanted us to come.” Frodo nodded, chuckling. He glanced at Faramir. “He told us about your feasts. He said you’d have to roll us home after breakfast.”

 

Faramir shook his head. That sounded exactly like Boromir. Always terribly proud of Gondor, even in the smallest of matters. “I’m sure he made us sound grander than we are.” He looked at the bowl in his hands, warmer than any meal he’d had in Gondor since his brother left. If a trace of this could return to the halls, perhaps his father could change.

 

Perhaps they could all change and become the Gondor his brother was proud of once more.

 

“It might not be as filling, but I’ll make breakfast tomorrow,” Faramir offered.

 

“Really?” Frodo snapped his head to stare at him, excitement crossing his face. “Ohh…Merry and Pippin will be jealous.”

 

Faramir could almost hear his brother’s guffaw.


End file.
